A Prophet's Burden
by Majinie
Summary: Chuck just wants his old visions of bloodshed and murder back, please. [Destiel with a side of Sabriel.]


Chuck Shurley turned over in his bed with a pained groan, massaging his temples in small, circular motions. He stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to get rid of the images that the vision had burned into his retina like the after-effect of a particularly bright bolt of lighting.

When that didn't help, he quite literally rolled off the mattress, picked up the robe that lay discarded in front of it and slid his arms into the sleeves while he padded into the kitchen to get some coffee. Or alcohol. Or possibly brain bleach. Yeah, that last one sounded just about right.

He had gotten used to having visions by now, hell, he was making a living off of them, but this? This was too much, even for him. He didn't know how he was supposed to stay sane if he saw these – these _things_ every night. He hadn't even dared to write them down yet.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled the knot on his bathrobe tight and grabbed the steaming mug of coffee. It was time to get to work.

~*~*~*~

Contently, Dean snuggled back into the warmth behind him while he pulled the blankets up a little higher. The arm around his waist tightened and he placed a hand over Castiel's, signalling that he was awake now, or at least half-way there.

"Good morning, Dean," the angel rumbled.

"G'morning, Cas," he muttered and bit back the habitual question of "how'd you sleep?" because he knew that Cas hadn't. He did seem to enjoy spending the night with him despite that, though, so that was alright.

Dean slowly turned around and tucked his head under Castiel's chin, ready to get a few more minutes of dozing. He had been sleeping a lot better lately.

A knock on the door put an end to _that_ particular plan and he sighed before calling out: "We don't need anything, thank you!" What kind of room service went around at this hour anyway?

There was another, more insistent knock, followed by a familiar voice calling out: "Dean, Sam?"

The hunter blinked, then frowned. "Chuck?" he asked, sceptically.

"Yes. Open up."

Dean stared at Cas with wide eyes and hastily scrambled out of the bed. "Just a second!" he shouted and frantically looked around for his clothes. "Get dressed," he hissed at the angel and tossed him a shirt and his trenchcoat. They were both dressed a minute later and Dean urgently whispered "look casual!" while smoothing his hair down.

Only when he was already opening the door, he remembered that he could have simply told Cas to zap away or turn invisible or something and pretend he had been alone all along, but it was too late for that now.

"Hey, Chuck," he greeted casually and opened the door a little wider. "What's the occasion? Everything alright?"

"Hi," the prophet replied, shuffling his feet before he slipped into the room, rubbing his hands in his usual nervous manner. "I saw something you might wanna know. About the Apocalypse, you see. Since you were in the area, I thought I'd stop by instead of calling." He reached into a pocket and produced some sheets of crumpled paper while he looked around the room. Dean thought he flinched a little when he spotted Castiel. "Right," he continued nervously. "And I figure congratulations are in order, so..." He waved the manuscript vaguely. "I'm happy for you two."

He smiled a feeble little smile as Dean did a double take, ears flushing red, and stuttered: "For – happy for whom? I don't know what you're –"

"Yeah, right," Chuck cut him off, deadpan. He gestured back and forth between Dean and Cas just as Sam slipped into the room, apparently alerted by the sounds of their conversation. "Really. You're... good together, I suppose. So congratulations."

Cas, his head tilted to the side, offered a polite thank-you while Dean continued sputtering.

"You – you _know_ about that?" he finally demanded with a healthy red colour in his cheeks.

"Oh yes, I know. About everything." Chuck's voice sounded resigned and hollow. He turned a tortured glance toward the angel. "In graphic detail."

Dean blushed a little harder and took a small step forward, one hand hovering at his side for careful, but very much telling gesticulation. "You mean, you know about..."

" _Everything_ ," Chuck cut in. "All of it." He tugged a hand through his curls and looked at Sam. "Including the thing with Gabriel and the chocolate syrup."

The younger Winchester, who had so far only watched with a sense of mild bemusement, choked. Considering he hadn't been drinking anything, that was quite impressive.

"Sorry, what? Gabriel and – what are you –"

The prophet frowned. "Wait, what is today's date?" He laughed sheepishly. "Oh. You haven't been there yet." Smiling that pained little smile again, he promised: "You'll enjoy it." Chuck pulled out a chair for himself at the small table and straightened his papers. "Now, let's talk about the end of the world, shall we?"


End file.
